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And I have been the while thy bosom's mate, Pressing in plighted love the bloody hand That slew my brother!

Thou, indeed, hast been An angel pure, link'd to a fiend. Yet, think not I have enjoy'd what guilt so deep had earn'd. Oh no! I've borne about, where'er I went, A secret wretchedness within my breast Turning delight to torment.—Now thou knowest Why on my midnight couch thou'st heard me oft Utter deep groans, when thou, waked from thy sleep, Hast thought some nightmare press'd me. Oh! were the deed undone, not all the diff'rence Of sublunary bliss that lies between A world's proud monarch and the lothliest wretch That gleans subsistence from the fetid dunghill, Would tempt me to embrue my hands in murder. (Speaking these last words loud and vehemently.)

Hush! speak not thus! thou'lt be o'erheard: some list'ner No; there is nothing; 'twas my fears deceived me.